


One Day At A Time

by Berty



Series: Everybody Loves Benton [2]
Category: due South
Genre: Dancing, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-05
Updated: 2010-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:39:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frase and Ray are taking it slow, but Ray is not a man known for his patience and he has a cunning plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Day At A Time

Yeah, I know that's what I said - one day at a time.

I mean I don't have much experience with guys, not none at all, admittedly, but not much. I can't claim that a few teenage handjobs and the odd indiscretion in the kind of bars my friends wouldn't expect to find me at, makes me an expert on hot, sweaty, nasty gay sex.

So I'm not TOTALLY sure of what it is that Benton and I are hopefully heading toward, although my imagination could certainly give us a great head start. But I guess I have a better idea than Ben. So I can understand that he's nervous – hey, we're BOTH nervous.

But it's been TWENTY-TWO 'one day at a times' since he showed up at my door with his wolf and his hat and his 'I think I love you too' smile. TWENTY-TWO FUCKING DAYS! And I swear, if I don't get a reaction soon I'm gonna explode – probably in my pants – and it's not gonna be pretty.

I have no idea what "I love you" means in Freakworld, but where I come from, it means "Love ya, need ya, want ya, let's do the wild thing!" Well, that's what it means when you say it to someone you're not related to… when you say it with a straight face… when you say it to someone and your tongue is hanging out so far you're scared to move in case you trip on it.

In Freakworld a.k.a. Fraserville, it must mean something completely different, because….TWENTY-TWO DAYS…

And I'm not getting any younger.

Scratch that – I'm just not getting **ANY!**

That first night was understandable. We were both sleep deprived and we didn't even manage to make it to the end of the pizza before we were both snoring on the couch. We woke up eleven hours later with stiff necks, killer backache and a smug looking wolf who smelled of pepperoni.

We had at least managed our first proper kiss – that buddy-breathing thing didn't count despite what Dewey says.

Between the third and fourth quarters of the game, he'd turned to me and I just KNEW he was gonna ask me something fucking profound; something for which I would have no answer powerful enough to throw back. You can always tell – he gets this little frown thing going on between his eyebrows. So I kissed him instead. Just a quick one - soft lips, no tongues – a "Hi, how are you, Babe?" kind of kiss.

I'd sat back with a self-satisfied smirk to watch his reaction. He'd blinked, nodded once and gone back to his pizza. I'd just about started to freak out thinking I'd totally lost my touch, when he'd turned back to me one minute later. I managed not to blurt, "I can do better" and waited for his considered response.

"Ohhhh! You _love_ me," he'd said significantly, as if he'd just caught on. So I spluttered and puffed and it took me a while to spot the 'gotcha' smile on his face. Which I, of course, had to kiss off because **I'M** the funny one in this relationship.

And that's where we nodded off. Trading tired kisses and sleepy, sloppy smiles.

We'd managed another kiss as we left that morning – a quick "I wanna kiss you – is this okay?" kinda kiss. He had to get back to open up the consulate. And that's as far as we've got.

We TOTALLY have the kiss thing down to damn near perfect. I know he likes it, he sighs, smiles and butts my lips with his until I kiss him again and I can SEE the evidence that it gives him a buzz – especially when he wears those Levis of his. And I know I _love_ it – I walk funny for the rest of the day if we've managed to snatch a kiss before work.

But he hasn't stayed over at my place since the first night. I dunno if he feels he ought to be at the consulate, like a security detail every night or what – but when we spend the evenings together, we eat, we watch a game, we go to the movies, we kiss and we go our separate ways. Hands strictly where they can be seen at all times – I like his in my hair best – but definitely nothing below the waist! It's not just me, is it? It's weird, right? Even for a couple of know nothing, suddenly gay guys.

I've tried, four times now, to ask him to stay over. I have an alarm clock - it's not like **I** don't have to work too. But each time I've dropped the ball and backed out. It's the way he looks at me.

 _You're going to ask me to stay aren't you?_

 _I'm thinking about it_

 _You are though, aren't you?_

 _Do you want to?_

 _I…I…I…_

 _You don't, do you? You're gonna say no, aren't you?_

 _I…_

Maybe I'm being impatient. Maybe I should be relaxing and enjoying the build up…if that's what this is. Maybe this is romantic and exciting – like waiting for your first time as a teenager. But I'm worried that this is all about me – that this is what I want, not what he wants. So I haven't pressed, I've waited for him to come to me. I want him to want me. I've been waiting for him to get SO horny that he HAS to push it.

And in the meantime, I've been taking a lot of cold showers and going for long, long runs. I've never been so fit or so clean.

But today, that's all over. I can't take it anymore. I'm only fucking human! I'm suddenly so aware of Frase; I can't concentrate on anything else. He sits too close, he smiles significantly at inappropriate moments, he stares at my lips – it's more than a guy should have to deal with. And I have been dealing with it – in the men's room – as quickly and silently as I can.

Fuck! It's like being sixteen again; I don't seem to be able to control my libido at all. Ben smiles - I'm hard. Ben speaks - I'm hard. Ben fucking breathes – I'm hard. I'm spending so much time in the third stall from the left, I'm thinking of setting up a phone line in there. I can order in pizza.

Well, today was the final straw. I was doing okay, tackling paperwork. Frase popped into the bullpen to let me know he was escorting some Canadian cultural minister or something to the airport that afternoon, so he would see me tomorrow. Fine. No problem. Have fun. Except his eyes then fix on my mouth with that intense gaze of his and he licks his lips…swear to God…he licks his fucking lips – right in the middle of the bullpen – in plain sight of everyone – and I'm instantly so hard I could hang his stupid hat from my dick. And he just smiles and walks away. Bastard!

And I'm off to stall three.

For the third time today.

Limping.

I made it through the rest of the day without further incident, wondering how I could move this relationship along a little without freaking Frase out.

So, I have a plan. It's a two-pronged attack. First, I'm gonna hit him on his own turf; he'll have to actually ask me to leave if he doesn't want me to stay. And secondly I have brought a secret weapon.

I tried to think of what made me lose control a little, what gave me a buzz and a lift, what made me feel good. So I have, on the seat beside me, a boom box (Lucille's from Admin. – she'll never know) and a hastily grabbed selection of CD's from the desks and drawers of my colleagues at the twenty-seventh. (They might know – I can't remember which desk I got which CD from).

I'm gonna teach Benton Fraser to dance.

God help me.

He looks pleased to see me, at least, when he comes to the door and lets me in. He looks good, very good indeed as he leans in for a quick kiss. Now, don't get me wrong, Fraser in uniform is the stuff my wet dreams have been made of almost since I met him. If you're sick of looking at Fraser in uniform – you're sick of life, in my book.

But there's something about all that Mountie-ness in casual clothes that just does for me. Tonight's choice of a washed out grey t-shirt and equally washed out denims may not sound like much, but believe me, when they are on Ben, the effect is devastating. Even his hair seems less tense.

"Ray," he says softly and his eyes go all gentle. And I could just stand here until I die of hunger and thirst for all I care. When he looks at me like that – how can I doubt that he loves me?

The moment is lost when my palm gets a liberal application of wolf snot.

"Ew! Dief! Sorry, buddy, I haven't got any today."

"You shouldn't feed him donuts, you know?" Frase chides me in that funny way of his.

"Yeah, I know. But I figure I owe him for letting me borrow you."

"He's doesn't have a say in who I see and who I don't, Ray."

Behind me there is a scornful snuff.

"No you don't!" Frase immediately responds. Waits a beat. "And yes, it HAS come up before as a matter of fact."

"Anyhow, it's immortal…" I interrupt.

"Immaterial?"

"…whatever: I don't have any."

"But you DO have…music?" he asks, taking in my surprise with a guarded look.

"Yeah. Is there somewhere with a bit of space in here?"

He looks thoughtful and suspicious. I give him a reassuringly innocent smile and…yep…now he looks even more suspicious.

"Well, Inspector Thatcher's office is the largest room other than the kitchen…"

I must admit, the thought of seducing Frase in the Ice Maiden's office is giving me a buzz right now, but I'm trying to make Ben relax a little. Making out on your commanding officer's desk is probably not gonna help the mood along, so I reluctantly shelve that idea.

Until next time.

"What's in here?" I ask moving to the only door off the dull hallway that I've never seen behind.

"Library," he answers cagily.

"Cool," and I wait by the door for him to open it for me – it makes him happy.

"What is this about?" he asks as he leads the way into the dim room. A quick glace around tells me that this is a library in the same way that Ben's office is a bedroom. Yes, the walls are lined with shelves and there are books on them, but there are also boxes piled in the corners, dust sheeted furniture making spooky shapes and the distinctive stale smell of a room that doesn't see a lot of traffic.

I click the light switch and nothing happens. Thankfully it's a summer evening and despite the subtle light, there's enough that I can see what I'm doing. In fact it might even help.

"The lightbulb…" Fraser begins, but I shrug and go hunting for an electric socket. I finally find one behind a box marked "Consulate Personnel Files – A-M. CONFIDENTIAL" and we are in business.

Now, I know I should have checked as I was gathering the musical offerings of my co-workers, that there was at least ONE decent artist represented, but I didn't. And now I have to pay for that error. I have Michael Jackson's Thriller, which has been used as a mug mat, some Nirvana, A Roy Orbison Greatest Hits, something called "All By Myself" but should be called "For fuck's sake – shoot me now", a Sheryl Crow album and a "Hits of the 80's" compilation that looks like it came free with enough gum wrappers.

I toy with the idea of going with the Canadian, figuring if this all goes horribly wrong, that might claw me back some respect. A quick glance tells me I only know one of the songs, but what choice do I have? The rest of my haul is hopeless. I slap the CD in and straighten up to face my sceptical looking partner. To add to my discomfort, Dief is sitting in the doorway and I swear he's grinning. If a wolf could slouch offensively, that is what he'd be doing.

The rocky, country twang sounds kind of flat in here, but it's an easy rhythm, nothing too fancy, just right for a man whose idea of dancing is probably the Hokey-Cokey on the Queen's Official Birthday.

"Frase? Have you ever danced before?"

"Well, of course I have, Ray. There was a time in…well, I once… when I was…no."

"Okay! Well, it's very simple. You listen to the music and you move to the beat." I demonstrate by snapping my fingers to the rhythm.

He nods very seriously and shifts uncomfortably. "Do you mind if I watch for a moment?" he mutters.

Hey, I don't mind – there's worse things than having your boyfriend watch your moves in a darkening room on a summer's evening.

"Sure," I reply softly, "Knock yourself out."

This is my thing. There aren't too many places that I fit…too dumb to be in Stella's crowd, too intelligent to go back to where I was born. I'm the most popular loner in Chicago and the similarities between me and Ben haven't escaped my notice. He's the same, too Canadian to be Canadian, neither fish nor fowl.

His natural element is snow, mine is the dancefloor. What can I tell you? The music speaks to me; it takes a hold of me and makes me move. I don't have to think about it, incredibly it just happens. The way boxing used to. The way sex with Stella used to. Even when we couldn't bear to speak to each other, we could still dance or fuck.

So I do my stuff. Just moving in time really. I don't want to show off and this music is about as far as it can get from the stuff I normally dance to. So this is basic, high school prom dancing…but much more stylish, of course. I step, I sway and I turn and I lose myself in the twangy, wholesome, Canadian goodness of it.

When the track closes and the next one starts, it's a little more upbeat. I turn back to look at Fraser, see if he's even moving yet. We're losing the light fast now and what's left isn't enough for me to be able to figure out the look on Ben's face. His eyes are in shadow and I'm a little rattled that I can't see his reaction. I need his responding ping to know whether or not I'm making an idiot of myself here.

I dance my way a little closer to where he's standing and around to where I can see him better. But it doesn't help. He's leaned up against the wall, arms loosely folded and his face is completely unreadable and it's nothing to do with shadows. I can see his eyes track me as I move around the room, but they give nothing away. It could be boredom, it could be him thinking I've gone nuts, he could be concentrating on learning…I have no idea. And it's freaking me out.

Just as I'm about to give this up as a REALLY bad idea and make a joke, he moves. He pushes himself off from the wall and walks slowly toward me, taking his time, his eyes never leaving me, until he's squarely in front of me. I don't stop moving, but I'm just keeping time again, shifting my weight from hip to hip waiting for him to laugh or leave or ask me to stop.

"Ray," he says, so quietly and so low it makes my balls clench. And I know what it is in his eyes.

It's lust.

Ping.

 _I want you._

 _I'm yours._

I reach out a hand to him, but he steps away with a small smile and moves around behind me. Unsure of what he's doing, I keep dancing. I turn my head, expecting to see him reappear on the other side of me, maybe with a kiss if I'm lucky. But he doesn't.

When his big, heavy hand lands on my hip, I try to turn towards him, but his other hand immediately grabs my other hip and forces me to stay. The strength behind his grasp thrills me and my dick twitches, already more than half hard from being around Frase. I lose the rhythm for a second and he has to help me get it back, pressing his fingers into my hips in time.

When I'm swaying to the beat again, I realise what a great idea this was. It's nice, I rock my hips and he holds me. Very nice. Delicious in fact. But the first time I feel Ben's groin come into contact with my swaying ass, all bets are off. This is…this is… **greatness**. This is **extreme greatness**.

After a couple of dud beats, he's with me and our bodies move together, his groin and my ass tightly wedged. We're in synch and I can't remember anything feeling so good. I reach behind with my hands and put them on his ass, pulling him even closer as I try something new. We sway left, right, left, left – two beats on one hip and then reverse, right, left, right, right.

And I have no idea how I'm doing anything so complex when I have no blood left in my brain at all – I can't have, because at least a brain's worth has slammed down into my cock making it almost ache with anticipation.

Ben's chin in on my shoulder and I feel his breath huff across my neck bringing up every goosepimple on my body and some I didn't even know I had. I want to turn, I want to kiss him until he's as senseless as I feel, but his hands grip me and compel me to sway with him.

I use the only advantage I have and set about mapping his ass through the old, soft denim of his jeans. My hands slide over him, squeezing and cupping. I know it's working when he buries his nose into my neck and moans, long and low. I grab my chance and spin around, capturing his lips with mine and forcing him back against a bookshelf.

Finally my dick gets what it craves; some friction. Shamelessly I rub myself against him, my hands on his ass once more, holding him where it feels best. I'm so lost in how fucking amazing that feels that I don't even notice when he reverses our positions and pins me against the books with his body.

With my eyes clamped shut in bliss, I don't fucking CARE who is doing who. This is him and me and heat and hardness and badly aimed kisses and it's **heaven**.

His hands are hooked under my ass, practically lifting me off the floor as he rocks against me. I can feel how big he is and I wonder how his jeans are holding all that in, but I know that I don't have time to free him.

We're at the point of no return. Our thrusts become harder, faster, more desperate and our hands clutch and pinch. We pant and moan and curse and I fall.

Huge shuddering pulses shake me to the very core and I'm helpless against their swell. I'm only dimly aware that the feel of the hot wetness of my groin sends Ben over too and he cries out hoarsely, his head buried in my shoulder as he shudders through his climax.

Slowly he comes down and the tremors subside. I rock him gently until he's quiet again. It's dark by now and I have no idea how many tracks have passed us by, not that I particularly care. We've come to a slow song, all soft chords and minor melodies. Tentatively he begins to move with me, then, when he's ready, he pulls me back away from the shelf and into his arms.

And we dance.

It's not clever, it's not pretty and we won't get points for our style, but I think it's pretty fucking wonderful.

The song finishes, and so does the CD. We sway to a halt and the moment is over.

Dief is mercifully asleep in the doorway. We're in a dark library/storeroom in the Canadian consulate; two thirty-something guys, both with a crap track record on the relationship front, both with aching thighs, swollen lips and messed up hair, and both with big, damp come stains on our pants.

And do you know what?

I think that's pretty fucking wonderful too.

 

Fin


End file.
